


pinky promise

by cantando_siempre



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Fighting, Gen, enjolras and combeferre are roommates, enjolras does model un idk i just love my headcanon, friendship fights, logic and philosophy week 2018, relationships are just mentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 03:16:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16359674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantando_siempre/pseuds/cantando_siempre
Summary: “What are you doing up?”“What I am doing up? E, it’s 6 in the morning. I’m getting up to leave for work.”“No, it’s not,” Enjolras scoffs.“Enj.  There’s literally a clock on your computer.”Enjolras doesn’t answer.Combeferre pauses.  “Have you been up all night?”-or: too much stress and overtiredness result in some... issues





	pinky promise

**Author's Note:**

> a last-minute work for logic and philosophy week 2018 since i just found out about it! hope you guys like it <3  
> warnings - cursing (sh**, dam*, fu**, etc.), nothing else

“What are you doing up?”

Combeferre walks into Enjolras’s room in their apartment at 6 in the morning to find him wide awake, sprawled across his bed with books and sheaves of scribbled-on paper flung around him, his laptop perched on his knees in the center of the chaos.

“What I am doing up? E, it’s 6 in the morning. I’m getting up to leave for work.”

“No, it’s not,” Enjolras scoffs, not looking up from his keyboard.

“Enj.  There’s literally a clock on your computer.”

Enjolras doesn’t answer.  

Combeferre pauses.  “Have you been up all night?”

Nothing.  Combeferre can tell Enjolras knows exactly what he’s doing and what’s wrong here, he’s just digging his heels in and refusing to admit he’s messed up.

“Enj.”

Dead silence.

“ _Enjolras_.”

“What?” Enjolras hisses, brow furrowing at his screen.

“You can’t keep doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“This,” Combeferre exclaims, flinging his arms out.  “It’s 6 in the morning and you’ve got an 8 am class!”

“Yeah, and we’ve also got an ABC meeting tomorrow – today – and I have to get this done in time, plus there’s -- other stuff, and –”

“The ABC isn’t a priority –” Enjolras opens his mouth to protest and Combeferre holds up a hand “– your health is.”

“My health is perfectly fine.” Enjolras grits out.

“E, I can’t handle last February again.”

“It’s not going to get that bad,” Enjolras dismisses.  “I’m pacing myself –” 

“You're staying up until 6 in the morning!”

“I’m  _fine_ , Combeferre!”

“You’re obviously not!” 

Combeferre’s yelling at this point, his neck flushing.  Enjolras has finally looked up from his laptop, and is glaring at Combeferre with bleary eyes.

“Well, what about you?” Enjolras challenges.

“What do you mean?”

“You were up until 3 this morning.”

“I --”

“I heard you.”

“Listen, this isn’t about me, it’s about –” 

“Yeah, it’s about you!” Enjolras objects.  “You can’t come in here and lecture me on shit you’re doing too!”

“Oh, and who’s the one who passed out and got a concussion last year because they didn’t sleep for 72 hours?”

“Well, who’s the one who almost got hospitalized from running solely on black coffee and toast during exam week?  Spoiler: it’s you!” Enjolras yells, and he’s standing now, laptop strewn across the bed with the rest of his things.  He’s only a couple inches away from Combeferre, and his eyes are alert now, his jaw set tight.

“At least I don’t suppress my emotions until I have a breakdown. How’s Grantaire?” Combeferre hisses, fighting to keep his voice level.

“I don’t know, how’s Courfeyrac?” Enjolras fires right back.  “He hasn’t been around much lately; did he finally get sick of waiting for you to figure your shit out?”

Combeferre actually stumbles backward, looking at Enjolras with wide eyes.  Enjolras’s the only one he’s told about Courfeyrac, the only one he’d trusted enough to confide in.

“Piss off,” Combeferre growls, feeling like he’s going to explode.  “You’ve got no damn idea what you’re talking about, Enjolras, so just shut up.  Spend your time thinking about why Grantaire’s still coming to meetings despite you treating him like a piece of shit.”

“Fuck you,” Enjolras hisses, hands curling into fists and chest heaving.

“Same to you,” Combeferre spits, striding out and slamming Enjolras’s door behind him.  He yanks on his shoes in a daze and slings his bag over his shoulder, heading out of the apartment with his shoulders tense, jaw clenched, and eyes wet.

***

Combeferre hasn’t touched Enjolras in a week, and he’s going insane.

They’re both extremely touch-oriented, which Courfeyrac takes particular delight in observing.  Combeferre’s perfectly used to sitting on the couch typing on his laptop and randomly finding himself with a lapful of Enjolras, and he’s always resting his chin on Enjolras’s shoulder or slipping his cold feet under Enjolras’s legs and making him screech.  

Combeferre usually finds comfort in the fact that he can stumble through their door after a long day, swing his legs across Enjolras’s, and talk for hours, but he hasn’t even seen Enjolras for more than a minute recently, much less touched him.  Combeferre’ll come home for a break between work shifts and classes and catch a glimpse of Enjolras’s curly hair through the crack of his door, or pass him in the door of the kitchen as he brushes past and disappears out the door like an apparition.  

One morning, he and Enjolras come to a standstill over the island, their coffee pot in the middle zone.  Enjolras gives Combeferre a small nod, looking like death warmed over, and Combeferre shakes his head and nudges Enjolras’s favorite mug across the counter.  Enjolras gives him a tiny flicker of a smile and starts pouring coffee into his mug.  His hands are trembling, and there’s tiny half-moon cuts permanently indented into the soft skin of his palms.

“So --” Enjolras’s voice cracks.  “So how’s your lab going?”

This is purely bizarre.

“Good, I guess.” Combeferre answers cautiously.  “How’s Model UN going?”

Enjolras groans dramatically.  “It’s a complete shitshow; the delegate for North Korea is being a dick in committee and out, and --” he cuts himself off.

“Enjolras, can’t we just --”

“No, we can’t ignore this,” Enjolras interrupts.  “You’re being a hypocrite --”

“I am not --”

“Yes, you are!”

“Ok, well, if you’re saying we can’t ignore things, why don’t we talk about what’s been making you all tense lately?  Because your communication has been severely lacking.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You can’t figure it out?”

“Are you insulting me?”

“Why would I do that?” 

“I don’t know, why are you flipping out so much about me having a couple of late nights?  It’s not the end of the world, and we already fixed what happened last February --”

“It’s not fixed!” Combeferre cries.  “It doesn’t count as fixed if it’s happening all over again --”

“It’s  _not,_ shit, ‘Ferre, stop repeating yourself --”

“I can’t watch you like that again!”

“Well, maybe it’s not always about you, ‘Ferre!” Enjolras yells, hands clutching the edge of the counter.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Enjolras?” Combeferre says desperately.  “You  _know_ how both of us care so much, too much, about everyone else, and you know that’s not what I meant.   _Please_ tell me what's wrong,” he pleads.

“There’s nothing wrong,” Enjolras grits out.

Combeferre sighs and walks out.  He’s done.

***

“Enjolras?”

Combeferre pads tentatively into Enjolras’s room after his last class of the day, armed with fresh-made gooey baklava as a peace offering.  Enjolras is squished into his tiny windowseat, staring through the glass out at the slowly darkening violet sky.  He doesn’t say anything, but Combeferre can tell he’s listening.

“Can we talk?”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Enjolras says flatly.  “We’re fine.”

Combeferre almost snaps, but forces his mouth shut, stepping forward and setting the baklava pan on the bed.  “E -- Enjolras, I’m not stupid.  Something’s not right, and it’s -- it’s just  _wrong.”_

“What, can you  _feel_ it?” Enjolras mocks, turning and scanning Combeferre up and down.

“Stop it!” Combeferre cries, his stomach swooping.  “This isn’t  _right,_ Enj, it isn’t you, and I can’t keep doing this.  You don’t play music anymore and you don’t come and make toast when I burn mine and you actually  _clean_ the coffee maker and – the apartment just doesn’t feel like home anymore.” he finishes quietly.

Enjolras looks startled when Combeferre finishes, and he watches him cycle through a hundred thoughts in his head until he settles on one.  Combeferre’s never been able to do that, compartmentalize and separate his thoughts into orderly piles.  His brain’s like a crinkled, ancient map; thought trails and isolated feelings and everything else weaving and circling and crossing over each other to make a mess of squiggly lines and indecipherable scribbles.

“You were right, you know,” Enjolras suddenly mutters, glaring a hole in the ragged carpet. “I had a panic attack in the Musain bathroom yesterday.  It was just too much at once, and I couldn’t handle thinking about it, so I just... didn’t.”

“What’s  _it_?” Combeferre asks, voice quiet.

“You know who.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

Enjolras shakes his head.

“ _You_ need to hear you say it, Enj,” Combeferre says gently.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras forces out, biting his lip and fiddling with his leather bracelet.

“What about him?”

“No,” Enjolras says abruptly.  “That’s enough.”

“Alright,” Combeferre hums, “but you need to admit it to yourself eventually.”

“I will.” Enjolras says quietly.  “I have.”

There’s silence for a minute.  Enjolras crosses the room, sinking onto his bed and swiping a finger across the baklava to lick off the sugar syrup.  “I don’t want to be tired anymore,” he mumbles, sounding defeated and scrubbing at his eyes.  “It’s exhausting.”

“That is generally a side effect of sleeping two hours a night,” Combeferre quips, settling on the bed next to Enjolras and laying down, staring at the old glow-in-the-dark-stars he and Enjolras put up on Enjolras’s ceiling when they moved in.

“But you can’t pretend you’re innocent,” Enjolras says, whirling and pointing his finger at Combeferre’s face.  “Just because you were right about... some things doesn’t mean you’re not doing stuff wrong, and you said shitty stuff too.  You need to get more sleep.”

“E --”

“No excuses,” Enjolras says fiercely.  “I’ll work on communicating and... other stuff, and you work on not driving yourself into the ground.  Deal?” He holds out his right pinky, locking Combeferre’s gaze.

“Deal,” Combeferre finally says, linking pinkies with Enjolras and managing to keep a straight face before Enjolras breaks, his nose crinkling, and then Combeferre starts laughing too.  He takes in a deep breath and lets it out, and he feels so  _content_ as Enjolras flops down next to him and starts gesturing wildly in the air.

He’s got his best friend back.

**Author's Note:**

> come visit! @cantando-siempre.tumblr.com


End file.
